


names of spells

by moonlightversion



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightversion/pseuds/moonlightversion
Summary: Kumon had wormed his way under Azami’s skin, had made him feel vulnerable and exposed, had made his home in Azami’s mind and heart, had stayed there and refused to leave.
Relationships: Hyoudou Kumon/Izumida Azami
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	names of spells

It’s June when Kumon tells him.

The night is still warm enough to sit outside on the balcony with a T-Shirt on, cicadas chirping. There’s a moth circling the lamp and a mosquito buzzing by his ear. Azami rubs his arm where he already got bitten, just above his elbow, and resists the urge to scratch.

The beer in Azami’s hand has gotten warm and Azami winces when he takes another sip. He’s eighteen now which means he’s allowed to drink one beer as long as he does it in the dorm, but Banri had still made a big secret out of it when he slipped him the can earlier that evening after Sakyo left. Azami’s stomach recoils slightly when he takes another sip. Dinner had been two hours ago.

Kumon drops the news on him just like that, like he’d just announced the weather for tomorrow or that he’d gotten a good grade on his test.

“I’m thinking of leaving the company.”

Azami suddenly feels nauseous like he’d drank ten beers already, not just one.

“Huh?” he intelligently says.

Kumon looks at him, eyes big and earnest, and he looks calm if it weren’t for his fingers drumming on the table, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years. Azami has half a mind to reach over and take Kumon’s hand in his, to stop the drumming.

Kumon shrugs, “I just. I feel like it’s time? Y’know?”

Azami doesn’t know, but he stays quiet, watches Kumon. Kumon who has filled out over the years, building up muscle, surpassing Azami in height. His hair had gotten longer too and Kumon once jokingly said he was going to grow it out to match Azami’s hair length, but he’d gotten impatient after a few months and he’s now sporting an undercut. There are more piercings in his ear too, a small triangle dangling from his right earlobe, a present from Misumi. His cheeks have lost its baby fat, his jawline is sharper. He doesn’t look like the Kumon he’d met on the street so many years ago.

“What are you going to do?” Azami asks, keeping his voice perfectly calm despite his chest tightening with every passing second. “If﹣when you leave?” The itching of his mosquito bite is even worse now.

It’s not even that weird that Kumon wants to leave. Over the years, a few of them have stopped being _active_ members of the company; only really performing with their own respective group, and not in mixed troupe plays anymore. Guy’s bar has flourished and he spends more time there than at the dorm; Tenma’s career has skyrocketed even more, so has Banri’s who has started to get minor roles in TV shows or movies. Yuki is busier than ever now that he’s in college and Kazunari, after graduating, actually left for a few months to travel the country, along with Misumi. It felt like every morning Azami woke up to a different selfie from them in the group chat.

Kumon tilts his head. The drumming stops. “There’s a baseball club in my college. I wanna see if I can join as a manager or something.”

Ah, right. Kumon may not want to play professionally, but he still loves the sport. Azami brings his beer to his lips. “And work your way up to a coach?”

Kumon laughs, bright, carefree, happy. Despite everything, Azami finds himself smiling. “Hey, if it’s possible.”

“If anyone can make it work, it’s you.” The words are out before Azami can stop them. Kumon blinks at him, then smiles, small, soft. “Thanks, Azami.”

“But, well,” Kumon stretches his arms over his head. “I’m just playing around with the idea now. Summer’s just begun﹣I still have time.”

Summer Troupe has a performance coming up soon. Azami faintly wonders if it’s gonna be Kumon’s last.

Azami gives in and scratches his mosquito bite.

  
  


Kumon had always liked to say his name, something Azami had gotten used to after a few months. In the beginning it had felt﹣weird. Different. To have a friend as open and affectionate as Kumon. His only friend before that had been Shifuto and both of them weren’t the type to lay down their feelings so openly. But Kumon had wormed his way under Azami’s skin, had helped him open up, had made him feel vulnerable and exposed, had made his home in Azami’s mind and heart, had stayed there and refused to leave, and Azami wouldn’t have it any other way.

Azami had pointed it out once, had said _you don’t need to say my name every time you say something when it’s just the two of us_ , and Kumon had laughed, sheepish, shy, had said _it’s a habit Azami!_ but he’d tried to stop and had lasted a whopping four and a half minutes, and Azami had realized that he liked the way his name came out of Kumon’s mouth.

It was always something like:

“Hey, hey, Azami, let’s study together!”

Or﹣

“Azami, I passed my test, look!”

Or﹣

“Hey, look at this fashion magazine, Azami, hey!”

Or﹣

“Azami, I read your latest #cosmetics review, Azami, it was so good!”

Or﹣

“Azami, I’m thinking of leaving the company.”

Or﹣

“Azami, I think I’m having a panic attack.”

Azami sits up abruptly in bed when the words filter into his brain and he grabs his phone tighter. Kumon had called him a minute ago, waking him up, and Azami glances at the time. 3:24 AM.

“Where are you?” Azami slowly climbs down his bed, quiet, glancing over to the other side of the room to see Sakyo still asleep.

Kumon’s voice shakes a little. “The courtyard.”

Azami grabs his jacket, searches for his slippers. “Be right there.”

Kumon looks unnaturally still when Azami spots him on the bench, calm and quiet, but Azami has been his best friend for four years, so he knows it’s an act.

Kumon’s hands are shaking when Azami sits down, hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palm. His breathing is shallow. Azami slowly reaches over, covering Kumon’s hands with his own and Kumon lets him, watches as Azami uncurls his hand and softly traces his fingertips over the crescent shaped marks on his skin.

“That tickles,” Kumon whispers, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Over the years they’ve learned that it calmed him down.

“Better?” Azami asks after a few minutes and Kumon nods. With his free hand, he reaches up and rubs his eyes and Azami only now realizes he must have been crying. His heart sinks. How long did Kumon sit out here before calling him?

Because this was the type of person Kumon was: shouldering his troubles alone, not wanting to seem weak. Sitting out in the courtyard in the middle of the night because he didn’t want to disturb Misumi. 

Azami looks down at their hands. “Was it because of what happened earlier?”

Kumon stills beside him, then nods again. 

Because Kumon was also this: if he messed up one little line, one adlib during a performance, he was the type of person to carry it around with him, to dwell on it, to blame himself. 

“Tenma messed up a line too,” Azami starts. “And he’s a professional actor. Did you notice it?”

Kumon shakes his head. “He did?” His voice is small, hoarse, and Azami’s heart breaks a little. 

Azami nods. “So, I doubt anyone noticed your mistake. It’s okay.”

It’s not much — Azami’s never been good with words and he doubts it brings Kumon any comfort, but for Kumon — he wants to try. 

“But it’s not just that, is it?” Azami asks. As an answer, Kumon very slowly entwines their fingers together. 

“I know it was my decision to leave, but what if,” his voice breaks. “What if I regret it? What if I realize I was wrong and I want to come back—“ He falls silent again. Azami rubs his thumb over Kumon’s hand. 

“Then you come back.”

Kumon blinks at him. “Is it that easy? Just like that?”

Azami doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t say anything at first, his heart hammering in his chest, thoughts raging in his mind. 

He wants to say, _please don’t leave._

Wants to say, _I’m scared._

Wants to say, _you’re the reason I came here and you’re the reason I stayed and when you leave I don’t know what I’m gonna do._

He wants to say so many things which he’s been bottling up over the past years, he wants to say _thank you,_ he wants to say _I need you_ , he wants to say _I love you I love you I love you._

Azami wants to be selfish, just this once. 

Instead, he says, “Just like that.”

Kumon’s hand tightens and Azami finally looks up. His cheeks are red, eyes tired, but he’s smiling, and the tension in his shoulders has loosened and he looks content. “Just like that,” he repeats. 

Kumon continues, “I’m sorry. You’re not getting your eight hours of sleep because of me.” His hand leaves Azami’s and Azami feels strangely empty at the loss of contact. Kumon brings his hands up to his cheeks, pulling at them. “And I’m gonna look puffy and blotchy tomorrow.”

Azami softly slaps his hands away. “Then don’t touch your skin.”

Kumon laughs quietly, a welcoming sound in the summer night. 

And Kumon was also this: the person Azami would go lengths for to see smile again. 

  
  


“Hey, Azami, you’re gonna make me look pretty for my last performance, right?” Kumon grins up at him and Azami stops with the brush right in front of his face.

 _But you already look pretty,_ Azami wants to say.

There are dark circles under Kumon’s eyes and his cheeks look sunken, the effects of last night, but his eyes are sparkling and his smile is happy, trusting. Azami swallows down his words.

“Have I ever done a poor job?” he asks instead, slowly swiping the brush across Kumon’s cheek. Kumon laughs silently, shoulders shaking. 

“I trust you, Azami,” Kumon says and Azami’s hand starts to shake. “Make me look pretty, yeah?”

“You’re not going to forget me, right, Azami?”

Azami had been charged with keeping Kumon busy after the last performance, so everyone at the dorm could finish setting up his surprise party, but he finds Kumon’s doing the job himself, sitting on the empty stage, legs dangling back and forth.

Azami twirls the keys the director gave him in his fingers. “What, are you dying or something?”

Kumon looks indignant, puffing his chest out. “I’m gonna live till I’m 130. You better keep up.”

Azami snorts, crossing the last few steps to stand in front of Kumon. He looks beautiful like that, face bare of makeup, half in the shadows, half in the light. Azami wants to reach his hand out, brush the hair out of his face. He opts for knocking his knee against Kumon’s. “You’re not moving across the world or anything.”

“We will see each other less, though.”

And that’s the truth﹣half of Kumon’s room is already packed up and by the end of next week he will be moving out and going to live with Yamaguchi; they don’t go to the same school, but their apartment is right in between both their universities.

“We will still see each other,” Azami says quietly. “You’re still my best friend.”

The smile Kumon sends him is blinding; he always looked ridiculously happy whenever Azami acknowledged their friendship and something warm blooms in Azami’s chest. “It’s not Shifuto?” Kumon teases.

Azami rolls his eyes. “Shifuto’s my oldest friend. We’ve been over this.”

Kumon laughs. “I like hearing you say it, though.”

 _I know,_ Azami thinks. _Me too._

He checks his watch and thinks enough time has passed for the others to be ready now, but he doesn’t want to move, wants to stay here with Kumon, wants to freeze time and ignore the future.

Kumon’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “There’s a party at the dorm, isn’t there?”

“You weren’t supposed to know that,” Azami squints. “Who told you?”

Kumon grins, shrugging. “It was obvious.”

“Pretend to be surprised,” Azami warns.

“Yes sir!”

Azami lets out a laugh and Kumon grins up at him, bright, happy. 

They know they should leave, but﹣neither of them make a move. Azami slips the keys into his pocket. “Azami,” Kumon says softly. “Do you want me to leave?”

“What kind of question is that,” Azami pulls a face. “A bit too late for that now, isn’t it?”

Kumon looks at him curiously. Azami feels braver by the second. “What would you do if I said no?”

“You want me to stay?”

Azami is so, so selfish. He says, “Yes.”

Kumon hums thoughtfully. He reaches his hands out, grabs Azami’s jacket, pulls him forward, and Azami stumbles until he’s standing between Kumon’s legs. “I’ll be waiting for you,” Kumon says.

“You idiot,” Azami’s face is red. His cheeks are burning. “Why do you make it sound like we won’t see each other anymore? You’ll be living ten minutes away by train.”

Kumon tilts his head. “Azami,” he says and Azami swallows. His hand slowly comes up to cup Kumon’s cheeks, thumb rubbing over his skin. He feels bolder around Kumon. Braver.

“Azami,” Kumon says again. “I’ll miss you.”

Azami’s hand drops. “You’re not dying,” he repeats. “And I think we really need to leave now.” He doesn’t say that his phone in his pocket has already vibrated three times, probably Banri telling him they can go home.

Kumon slides off the stage and Azami takes a step back, but then Kumon grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers together. Azami stares at it.

“Azami, come on,” Kumon tugs on his hand and they make their way up the aisle. Kumon looks back over his shoulder. “We don’t wanna be late for my super secret surprise party!”

" _Please_ pretend to be surprised,” Azami mutters. “Your brother is gonna beat my ass.”

Kumon laughs. “Nii-chan would never!”

Azami lets himself be tugged along and he finds himself staring at Kumon, at his laugh, his carefree expression, his smile. Kumon’s always shone brighter than anyone else Azami knew. Azami was just following two paces behind.

Later, they will find themselves on the balcony again, like that one night so many weeks ago. Kumon will be tipsy and happy and his eyes will be red because of course he will cry; because of the surprise party, the presents, the thought of leaving the company. Azami will nag and warm him about drinking too much and Kumon will laugh and nuzzle his face in Azami’s neck and Azami will blame the alcohol when his fingers start playing with Kumon’s hair and Kumon will look up at him and Azami will think he’s beautiful﹣

Maybe they will kiss. Maybe Azami will be brave enough then.

But for now, this is enough.

Things Kumon took with him when he left Mankai: the scripts from all his plays, his old baseball bat, a super triangle, Azami’s heart.


End file.
